Gratuitous
by Wiccacow
Summary: Part of the Clarity AU, Psi gets lost in the wonder of murder. Warnings: A lot of gore, finger-severing, spinal breakage/exposure, murder. And lots of blood.


**Notes:** As a result of constant moderate-to-high stress I vented some of it out temporarily with gratuitous gore. A part of the Clarity AU. Other fic in the AU: Almost Human

**Warnings: **A lot of gore, finger-severing, spinal breakage/exposure, murder. And lots of blood.

The victim lay writhing under their restraints, the harsh lamp burning into his retinas if he dared to open his eyes, accentuating the sweat leaking from his pores. His flesh jiggled where it was loose, turned white where it pressed against the bonds. The eyes were widened with fear, that much Syler could tell. Occasionally a victim fancied themselves a predator instead of prey, eyes widening with rage, the struggle one of the desire to kill their captor rather than escape. Those were the dangerous ones. Those were the ones Syler took most pleasure in.

He'd have to settle for prey tonight.

The rag he ran across the blade, though he knew they were thoroughly cleaned. Wiping them down one more time when they didn't need it had become a part of the ritual, somehow. The rag soon was tossed aside, the blade brought to quivering flesh, dancing along lightly as it approached its destination. Carefully he placed the edge of the tool over the last knuckle of a middle finger. With some slow, cautiously applied pressure he slipped the blade between the bones, pushing down on the ligament tissue. The two bones squeezed and kept the blade steady, a chorus of screams rewarding him. The blade gave a satisfying clack as it bit through the digit and into the table. The screams mixed with sobs, tears mingling with sweat. Blood spurted and oozed from the wound, giving the silver blade and pale grip some decoration.

This procedure he repeated on every knuckle on every finger on each hand, much like slicing carrots. It was tedious but it helped focus him. With each scream he found himself wondering how much this man's victims had screamed before he'd slit their throats. Each scream was a small revenge for their pains, though Sy felt no satisfaction from the thought. In fact, he felt nothing. Only the sight of the blood and the shrieks made him feel anything, and the only way he could describe that feeling was one, solitary, intuitive word: alive.

He moved onto the wrist next, just below the knot. He switched out for a bone saw (after cleaning the blade, of course). The man pleaded with him, begged, even threatened, but the pleas feel on deaf ears and transfigured themselves into cries of agony as Sy continued the process. Like usual, he decided it was too much work, abandoning the half-severed appendage. With the freshly wiped blade he shifted positions, deciding to do something more impulsive instead of meticulous; like a cake he carved out a slice of the man's shoulder, made easier by the face-down position of the victim. He'd seen that television show, the one on the serial killer who killed other serial killers. Donovan had suggested it to him, joking that the protagonist was just like him.

The protagonist was an idiot, but that was besides the point. The character always had his victims face up. Sy preferred his to be face down; that way he could carve into the torso without having to deal with the disgusting sight of entrails. That, and he could access the spine.

With a most specialized blade he dragged heavily along the victim's back, splitting the skin like a roasted hot dog, exposing the bloody white of the spinal cord. His victim's voice was growing hoarse with screaming, grating his ear drums. He took a crowbard, checked its weight in his hands, and slammed it down onto the cord repeatedly. The sound was indescribable, but it was accompanied by the loudest scream he'd heard from the victim yet, and then silence. Not even a sobbing epilogue. He must've passed out. Good. Now Sy could work in piece.

Slowly he pried the skin near the break apart, pressing and hooking the crowbar under one of the sides. With greater force than he had anticipated he managed to lift up the one side from the other. Pieces of broken bone flaked off, and he thought he even saw spinal fluid leak out. He shuddered with no emotion attached, only adrenaline. Curiously, he poked at the spinal disks with his tools, prodding and pulling and pushing.

By the time he had gotten bored with the spine it hadn't crossed his mind that the patient might've died from shock, or would soon. It wasn't like the living state of his victim much mattered to him, besides the promise that more blood would be produced. Glorious, sanguine delight. It was sprayed all over his front, coated his hands. Some had gotten onto his lips, somehow. It tasted delightful.

He split open the calves next, sawing at the bone and muscle, destroying an artery, the blood spraying forth. It oozed from the major vein as well, and Sy found himself shaking, unable to continue producing damage. Instead he showered in the spray, curling his hands around the pool of blood, pushing it, watching it drip from his fingers. It was utterly fascinating, the way blood moved. How it looked bright and vibrate oxygenated, while being deep and dark like rubies when asphyxiated It was the different between night and day, a poetic juxtaposition, a-

"You look like you're having fun."

Sy turned slowly to the owner of the voice, a tall dark and handsome man with thick brows and thin, smirking lips. Oh. Donovan. Sy had forgotten he was there. He usually did.

"You've been playing with the blood for 20 minutes. You ready to clean up?"

Sy blinked slowly, looking back to the body, which was turned white. He swore it had been pink a second ago - and that only a couple minutes had passed.

Almost automatically he picked up the power saw, turning it on, setting to work at cutting up the victim's remains for easier disposal. Donovan kept back for the most part, detesting the beautiful blood, only coming in to remove severed parts between pauses. They packed them into neat little garbage bags ("Just like the you on TV"), setting them aside. With the work done, Sy stared at his ruby red hands, the blood dried here and there, but in other parts fresh.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up," Donovan cooed, gently leading Sy to the bath he'd prepared. The water was warm, warm like the blood had been, quickly turning pink with the taint. Donovan's scrubbing was unforgiving, scraping the caked blood from his body, from under his nails. It was one of the times Donovan rarely spoke, just watching Sy's relaxed posture. So relaxed. He never felt relaxed except for after a kill. Never felt so… free.

"Like a weight has been lifted…" he lisped quietly, eliciting a small chuckle from Don. Sy watched the water grow closer to crimson, batting at the surface, finding the way the light played on it soothing.


End file.
